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The Psychopaths Nightmares
Please excuse me as I’m feeling the need to bleed some. Indeed, I am very close to the point of no return at this precise moment and things are beginning to appear rather desperate. That is to say that I am way, way past my wit’s end and feel so strangulated that I’m pretty much praying for release right now. I have tried, so fucking hard, to rise above all the adversity I’ve been faced with the past few months. It started of course with the breakdown of my marriage but, if anything, has just gone continually downhill from there. I would have packed my toboggan if I’d known although, if my current run of misfortune offers any indication whatsoever, then it would likely be decorated in razor blades and barbed wire.
It’s not as though I haven’t sent out numerous signals. Recently posted articles Screaming on Mute, Is This Thing Turned On? and Living in Shadows are just three examples of a man dying inside and feeling like a mime artist locked up in a glass cage. Even The Jesus/Hitler Debacle stemmed from being misunderstood. Please allow me to ask you this – how much can a man endure before the damage becomes irreversible? How many kicks to the ribcage before they begin to splinter? I mean, I’m only freaking human, admittedly not your average Joe but certainly not welcome at the carnival.
I’ve been living with my 70-year old mother since late September and, in that time, have seen her helpless and broken which rattles the very heart in my cage, with the tenacity of a splitting maul no less. Of all the intentions I could ever have, the last would be to make her physically ill as a result of constant worry. However, that is exactly what has happened. I understand her frustrations, really I do, but it seems as though mine are spoken in a Hebrew tongue as, try as she may (and believe me she does), she just cannot seem to grasp it.
It’s not a problem though, after all, I come from an extended brood and have three older siblings and numerous other family members who can help me through my ordeal right? My own mother may be culpable of not hearing my cries but they don’t even seem to see me right now. The only feedback I receive from them is to “talk to me in a couple of months when I’m better” as though I’m suffering from a particularly infectious bout of influenza.
Maybe a megaphone will help, cymbals on both my knees, cow bells as earrings and a neon jumpsuit bearing the words “Help me please or soon I will be nothing more than another frame on the mantle.” I’m done, so motherfucking done. Out of fight, ideas and the will to improve my situation. Why should I give a flying hoot about myself when all around me act as though I’m pond scum?
I feel as though elaboration is called for so I call to the stand my first witness – yours truly. Do I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? D’uh! I have been struggling with addiction for longer than I care to record now, slowly withering away and losing parts of myself on a daily basis. My lungs are in the worst shape and I splutter and cough each time I toke now so yeah, I’d say I’m pretty much ready to place my cards on the table.
One of my friends had a lung collapse on him a few years ago and, needless to say, it put the fear of God into him. As he laid there wheezing, he cast his bloodshot eyes around the ward to discern that it was filled with old worn bodies on the verge of capitulating. He was soon patched up, and since that day has never so much as taken a blow-back. That’s pretty much the point I’m reaching, a brisk trot up the stairs is like touching the fucking void and a simple stroll to the nearest convenience store is more like seven years in Tibet.
My shell, once rather delicious, is perishing like an apple in an asshole. Sure, my writing is at its most dynamic and I feel right now that my magnum opus is only ever one piece away. However, am I just giving chronicle to a life which I feel slipping from my grasp with every misunderstanding or ignorant comment from those who are “burdened” with gate-keeping my raggedy ass.
That’s right I’m the cross every family is forced to bear, the blackened sheep. I’m a bad person and an embarrassment to my family name. Utter fucking drivel, I am one of the nicest folk I know. I sidestep snails on the garden path, recycle my trash and offer assistance to the frail old dear doddering across a bustling intersection. I wish nobody bad tidings, have oodles of unconditional love that I wish to share with the world and the ability to see the bright side of nigh-on any situation that arises.
I can’t see that right now, all I see is a family sweeping me under the rug and giving me the priceless advice to “snap yourself out of it”. Not trying to be a dick here but of what? Life? Not possible or, at least, I’m not capable of doing such without help from people who are impartial. What is the worst thing you can do for somebody fighting tooth and nail for rapidly depleting air? Ship them off to mom and let her deal with the fallout. Stellar advice guys and yes that is a vague hint of sarcasm in my tone and I feel that I’m entitled to it dagnabbit.
So you see, I’m thoroughly snookered whichever way I seem to look at it. That’s right, caught somewhere between rock and hard place and with all but no options left at my disposal. Come on Crimson Quill, you’ve never let me down before so why break the habit of a lifetime old chap? Give me something here, remind me there’s a reason why I’m worthy of continuation and I promise I’ll pay you back in kind. Tell a witty anecdote, put on the clown shoes and haul me out of the quicksand before it consumes me entirely. Erm…pretty please?
Isn’t it Funny
Isn’t it funny that sharks can’t reverse
that things can’t get better unless they’re worse first
It raises a smile that emus can’t fly
even though their necks reach up to the sky
It does make me chuckle that some dogs eat shit
You’d think the foul flavor would help them to quit
There’s nothing more humorous than pensioners’ clothes
What possesses old Gertrude to dye her perm mauve
I laugh ’til the snot streams at ignorant folk
I want to go over there give them a poke
Such endless amusement from daytime TV
Perpetual horse shit they’re drip-feeding me
Oh how I guffaw when my bloodline forsake me,
I’m falling to slumber no fucker will wake me,
it’s goddamn side-splitting the place I’m sat now
I’ve become my own prisoner with no idea how
Verdict? Utterly insane clearly but am I feeling full of the joys of spring? Well my ass is numb, I can no longer feel either my nose, digits or toes. On the flip side, the chill in the air is too damn biting to roll a joint with any discernible panache so I’m currently blazing a trumpet and that’s supplying me no end of amusement. Do I feel healed? Let’s just say I’m alive, and right now that is a start. While the quill hasn’t swooped down and carried me from the burning debris to a secure vantage, it does act as a rather spiffing fire-hose. You see, always looking for that upside.
Sinning still and hanging in there,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013